


The Adventure of the Solitary Jogger

by cinnamon_lyons



Category: Dollhouse, Real Person Fiction, Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: M/M, Sorry Not Sorry, Who wouldn't?, can't say I blame Kisgart, shameless fannishness
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-03-15
Updated: 2015-03-22
Packaged: 2018-03-13 03:50:05
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 12,003
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3366662
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/cinnamon_lyons/pseuds/cinnamon_lyons
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Writer/actor Sam Kisgart* decides to spend his new-found wealth following several successful BBC series with a visit to the Dollhouse to bring to life his ultimate Sherlock Holmes fantasy. No need to know anything about Dollhouse to follow the plot – there’s a brief summary in the notes though.</p><p>Holmes and Moriarty are largely based on my other Holmes stories – so Conan Doyle with a little license/how I thought the Dollhouse would likely translate the characters. But feel free to picture Charlie (Holmes) as any former public school boy you so choose. I make no apologies for the fact Moriarty is entirely how I've always wanted him to be, and follows no other canon.</p><p>*No prizes for guessing Kisgart’s true identity...</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. The Fantasy

Topher Brink, programmer extraordinaire, waved an excited finger at the monitor in front of him, where a brightly-coloured brain image rotated slowly.

“What do you think of that?” He demanded triumphantly. Ivy, his assistant, bent her pigtailed head slightly to squint over his shoulder.

“Huh, nice work.” She admitted. “Analytical problem-solver. Tidy mind. A spy?” Topher shook his head, practically beaming with pride.

“You are looking,” He revealed, in slow, portentous tones, “At the brain of the most famous consulting detective ever to not quite exist!” Ivy frowned, taken aback. She glanced aside at the stack of books on a nearby desk – Topher wasn’t usually one for a little light reading and, as she took in the titles, she now realized it was research.

“You’ve created _Sherlock Holmes_?!” She was actually rather awed. Topher preened in the praise.

“I don’t think anyone else could have done it better!” He announced. Then he thought about this for a moment. “Actually, I _know_ they couldn’t. I am, after all, the sharpest neuro-programmer in the West!” He cocked his right hand in the shape of a gun, half joking, but obviously intensely proud of himself nonetheless. Despite her admiration, Ivy rolled her eyes.

“Yeah, yeah, yeah.” She said. “Still, a fictional character. That’s pretty cool. Have we ever been asked for that before?”

“Most of our clients don’t have much in the way of imagination.” Topher shrugged, “I gather this dude’s a writer himself.”

“So, what’s his fantasy, then?” Ivy grinned, barely taking her eyes off Topher as the door opened and Charlie entered with his handler. Charlie was one of the dolls for whom the Dollhouse was named – volunteers whose original personalities had been wiped, turning them into blank slates ready to be imprinted with any data Topher chose. Ivy helped Topher settle the doll in the chair, neither of them really paying any attention to him.

“Let’s just say Holmes isn’t the _only_ character I’ve designed.” Topher raised his eyebrows, rather comically. There was obviously some kind of story here, but he was quickly distracted from it as he finally noticed Charlie’s shock of dark hair and the excessively muscular body all the dolls tended towards. He frowned. “He doesn’t _look_ much like Holmes. Wardrobe are going to have their work cut out!” Then Topher shrugged, directing his words at the doll himself.

“This might pinch a little.” He warned, and started the system running.

The door opened again while the imprint was still going. This time the doll who entered was Alpha: tall, dark and imposing, despite the vacant look on his features.

“So, who’s Alpha going to be?” Ivy prodded, since Topher seemed to have forgotten the conclusion to their earlier conversation. He looked up from the controls and his face crinkled with amusement.

“Who do you think? Professor Moriarty, of course!”

*

Dollhouse handler Rosa Tyson leaned back against the wall, finding herself rather impressed as the wardrobe team finished with her charge.

“Excellent!” Charlie announced in his new, clipped English accent, brushing a little fluff off the sleeve of his black coat.

“What do you think, Rosa?” Kesha asked, as she and Jackson stood aside from their creation. “Pretty neat, huh?”

“Topher may have it all sewn up in the neuro department, but where’d he be without us, well, _sewing_?” Jackson added. He was right. They’d done an incredible job of fitting the profile. Charlie was well-dressed but not excessively pretentious; his suit and the high collar of his shirt had a considerable hint of Victoriana, without coming across as steampunk. His hair had been tamed and smoothed back, and his cheekbones somehow seemed more visible, while his eyes sparkled, brighter than Rosa had ever seen them. He would certainly stand out in any LA crowd, yet he somehow conspired not to look disturbingly eccentric.

Rosa opened her mouth to express her appreciation, but she was interrupted by a voice from behind them – the tone was familiar, but it had a new, smoothly dangerous edge.

“Well, well, well. Don’t _you_ look delightful, darling?”

Alpha was standing in the doorway and, although he was still wearing a vest and loose, colourful pants, he didn’t sound like a doll. Charlie – Holmes, she supposed she should call him now – spun round instantly, his eyes narrowing, his mouth set in a steely line. He had clearly recognized the voice and his hands clenched into fists for a second, knuckles white.

“Moriarty.” His voice was tightly controlled. “Not dead after all, I see.” Moriarty laughed, a low chuckle, taking a stride into the room.

“It almost sounds as if you aren’t pleased to see me, my dear Holmes!”

Rosa frowned at Samuelson, Alpha’s handler, as he followed the doll into the room.

“Should they be meeting like this?” She hissed. He shrugged. He’d been at the Dollhouse far longer than she had, and was blasé about most things.

“They’ll forget it by the time they’re out in the field. You know they’ve got enough underlying programming to stop them remembering this place except when we need them to, right?”

The two dolls were now standing just a few feet away from each other. Both their bodies were tense, well-built muscles ready to spring into action at any sign of trouble.

“Don’t you have _any_ fond memories?” Moriarty’s voice was softer, although there was a cruel amusement in his eyes as he tilted his head.

“Oh, your catalogue of crimes has very successfully wiped those out, I’m afraid.” Holmes said coldly.

“Professor,” Kesha tried to interrupt, stepping towards the taller doll. “Your outfit is ready for you. If you wouldn’t mind undressing?”

The programming Samuelson had mentioned also ensured that the dolls remained obedient to Dollhouse staff, whatever their imprint. Moriarty-Alpha shrugged his muscular shoulders slightly and stripped off his vest, throwing it casually aside, shortly followed by his pants.

Rosa stepped up behind Holmes to touch him on the shoulder, ready to leave. The doll didn’t turn: his eyes remained fixed firmly ahead, and she saw Jackson flash a knowing look at Kesha. She rolled her eyes. So _that_ was the fantasy! Rather predictable, she thought.

Moriarty noticed too. He smiled slowly.

“So you _do_ still care after all.” He drawled. Holmes’ brow furrowed and he raised his head sharply.

“I can assure you, Moriarty, it’s nothing personal: a purely objective appraisal of a rather fine male physique, that’s all.” He turned smartly towards Rosa. “Miss Tyson, shall we-?”

Rosa nodded, and they left the room before another word was said.

*

Sam Kisgart felt the sweat pricking the palms of his hands but managed to resist wiping them on the trousers of his well-tailored suit, instead reaching to pick up his tea cup with slightly shaking fingers. He wondered why he was so nervous. He had planned this and paid for it after all!

He sipped his tea, wincing a little at the unmistakable bitter aftertaste of UHT milk. He squinted across at the door of the hotel, despite the canopy protecting him from the sun’s full glare. And then he saw him. It was unmistakable, really. Not just the cosmetic appearance, but the way the man moved: the slight wrinkle of his brow, the sharpness of his gaze, his measured yet certain steps as he moved rapidly closer to Kisgart. _This_ was Sherlock Holmes.

The cup clattered a little against the saucer as Sam put it down, getting to his feet and holding out a hand as the stranger approached.

“Sherlock Holmes?” There wasn’t really any need for this to be a question, but it made him feel more grounded, somehow. The stranger inclined his head slightly.

“And you must be Mr. Kisgart.” Holmes shook his hand, a short but firm movement, and took a seat opposite. Kisgart could feel those sharp eyes appraising him and, for a brief, panicked moment, wondered what the hell he had let himself in for. But he drew in a deep breath. He could stop this at any moment if he wanted, after all. What had that De Witt woman said? _Any mention of the Dollhouse and it will only confuse him – quite possibly send him right back here._ He shook himself.

“Thank you for meeting me here.” Holmes was saying. “I haven’t been in town long enough to find better rooms.”

“Not at all,” Kisgart managed to retain his composure, although inside he felt like a nervous fanboy meeting his idol for the first time. “I’ll be very grateful if you’re able to help me. I haven’t been here long myself, and I must admit this whole affair has got me spooked.”

“Hmm, I knew you didn’t sound local.” Holmes remarked, in a lazy drawl. “You’re from County Durham, am I correct? If I were to hazard a guess, I’d say midway between Durham and Middlesbrough.” He half smiled. “Via London, of course.”

“Of course.” Kisgart chuckled a little. He wondered if Holmes was trying to put him at his ease by suggesting that he might be guessing. More likely it was just a turn of phrase. Holmes leaned forward.

“So, why don’t you tell me what’s got you _spooked_ , Mr. Kisgart?” He asked, reaching into his pocket. He pulled out a packet of cigarettes and lit one without taking his eyes off Sam. He smoked in the elegant way Kisgart had always envisaged, though the smell did make him wish he hadn’t requested this detail. At least it wasn’t a pipe, which would doubtless be worse!

“Well, it started about a fortnight ago.” Kisgart began, turning his face away from the smoke as best he could. “While I’ve been here, I’ve taken to jogging around the Hollywood Reservoir. It’s quiet up there: some days I hardly used to see another soul. But then, two weeks ago, I saw another runner. He was about two hundred yards behind me, going at a similar pace. I didn’t think anything of it at first, but then when I saw him in exactly the same spot a few days later – and, I might add, at an entirely different time – I slowed my pace in order to greet him. But he slowed too, although he didn’t take his eyes off me, and I found myself embarrassed into running on.”

Holmes didn’t say anything but he raised an eyebrow. Sam laughed, not quite sure what the insinuation was but hazarding a guess.

“I’m a little old to go cruising, Mr. Holmes.” He admitted. Holmes chuckled.

“But I take it you no longer think that was the man’s intention?” He said. Kisgart nodded.

“Indeed. Every day I’ve been running since then, the man has appeared on the same stretch of track. On each occasion he’s been the same distance behind me. After a while I became so intrigued that I tried slowing down – even stopping entirely. Whatever I’ve done, the man has remained the same distance away. Finally, I tried lying in wait for him. I sped up where the path turns a sharp corner, shrouded by trees, and then ducked out of sight behind one of them. He couldn’t possibly have seen, but although I waited several minutes he didn’t appear. When I went back around the corner to look down the path, there was no sign of him.”

Holmes nodded, lighting another cigarette. Sam coughed, despite himself. Holmes didn’t appear to notice.

“I assume you don’t recognize the man.” He said. Kisgart shook his head.

“He keeps far enough away that I can’t see his face, but I don’t think I know him all the same.” He screwed his face up helplessly. “He’s tall, dark, well-built, usually wearing dark glasses… I’d hazard a guess that he’s in his mid-30s. And that’s about all I can give you.”

“Very well, Mr. Kisgart.” Holmes said firmly. “If you could describe the location where this man appears, I’ll be happy to solve the problem of your mysterious solitary jogger.”

*

Holmes had arranged to meet Sam Kisgart that same evening, this time at the latter’s hotel. Sam was not particularly surprised when the detective turned up an hour late with a cut lip and a discoloured lump on his brow. Holmes threw himself jubilantly into the chair opposite, laughing heartily.

“You don’t seem very surprised by my appearance, Mr Kisgart.” He commented, but he was obviously so keen to tell his story that he didn’t pursue this any further.

“I take it you managed to find the jogger?” Kisgart changed the subject slightly. Holmes shook his head.

“Not quite. I didn’t doubt your story, after all.” He frowned slightly, as if pondering for a moment why Kisgart would think that he might have done. “I simply sought to uncover a little background to your tale. The best way to do such a thing is to find the nearest bar, wouldn’t you agree? A bar is where people gossip.” He paused for a moment. “And Americans are quite forthcoming in that respect.”

“Not all of them, it seems.” Sam indicated the detective’s injuries. He was interrupted by a waiter: after a glance at Holmes, he ordered them both a whiskey without asking. Holmes was still chuckling a little at Kisgart’s comment.

“Well, it’s like jogging, I suppose. All in the name of exercise!” He declared, adding a little smugly. “Anyway, what’s the phrase? You should see the other fellow…”

Sam couldn’t help rolling his eyes a little. “Yes, but what did you find out?” Holmes folded his hands on the bar. Kisgart winced a little when he noticed the state of the detective’s knuckles but he didn’t comment.

“I began by making innocent enquiries to a young bartender, about the best locations for jogging in the local area and so forth.” Holmes related briskly. “He recommended the reservoir, of course. And then he was struck by my accent, commenting that a number of Englishmen seem to have taken up running in the neighbourhood recently. I expressed an interest, and he was only too happy to expand on this point. He wondered if I happened to know a chap by the name of Williamson. He has a mansion up in the Hollywood Hills, and a reputation for wild parties, to which he often invites his fellow countrymen. Alec – the barman – recently attended one such soiree, so he was able to tell me a little more about them. He hinted that it may have been an orgy of some kind, but suddenly became rather coy on that point.”

Holmes laughed, taking a sip of his drink. “Anyway, he _did_ mention a rather disagreeable fellow that he had encountered at the event, who was also English. This gentleman also mentioned the reservoir, and Alec commented that his physique certainly suggested he took a considerable amount of exercise. The fellow was charming and attractive, and Alec had rather enjoyed conversing with him at first: until he found himself alone with the chap, that is.” Holmes paused, enjoying drawing out the conclusion of his story.

“What happened?” Kisgart couldn’t help asking. The specifics of the plot had been left up to the Dollhouse to work out, and he found himself intrigued.

“Alec was only too willing to get to know James – the only name by which he knew the fellow – a little better, but it seems that James preferred him unwilling. He pinned the young man up against the wall, and held a knife to his throat. Alec managed to escape unharmed, thanks to the sudden arrival of another guest, but he was shaken and a little bruised by his experience.” Holmes’ tone had become more serious, and Kisgart swallowed, nervous despite himself. It was all too easy to get caught up in this fiction.

“You think this man might be the solitary jogger?” he asked.

“And you yourself in danger? Yes, indeed I do.” Holmes’ dark eyes stared piercingly at Kisgart for a moment. Sam broke the tension with another question.

“But what happened to…” He indicated the other man’s face, struggling to find the words for once. This brought the amusement back to Holmes’ expression, and his eyes crinkled.

“Ah, now there’s the humorous conclusion to the tale!” His voice became lighter almost instantly. “Alec was just telling me that he’d never attend another party of Williamson’s, when who should appear beside me but that gentleman himself! He’d been sitting, un-noticed by either of us, just around the corner from the bar, and had heard the entire conversation. He demanded, in most impolite tones, to know why I was sniffing around and just who the devil I was. I told him I was interested to hear more about this “James” and would he oblige by filling in some details. He… was not very obliging. He had a bodyguard with, him, of course.” Holmes’ lip had started bleeding again as he narrated his story, and he dabbed at it with a tissue, almost ruefully. “Still, I’m apparently the better boxer. I gather the modern generation of roughs tend to rely on guns rather than their fists to intimidate.”

Sam tilted his head, awkwardly apologetic. “I’m so sorry I put you in such a dangerous position, Mr. Holmes…” Holmes waved a hand, interrupting him.

“Not at all, it goes with the territory.” Then he grinned, rather charmingly. “I wouldn’t say no to another whiskey, though.” Kisgart paused a moment. Now appeared to be his chance. He glanced across towards the lift.

“I have some rather better Scotch in my room. And I thought you might like to clean yourself up?” He gestured towards the blood-specked tissue Holmes was still holding to his face. Holmes froze, his keen eyes regarding Kisgart for some time. For one long, awful moment, Sam thought the detective was going to turn him down, even though he had a feeling that this must go against his programming. Then Holmes inclined his head slightly, not betraying any especial interest, but rising smartly to his feet.

“I’m all yours, Mr. Kisgart.” His tone was slightly mocking. Well, I suppose I deserved that, Sam thought, but he led the detective to the lift all the same.

*

Despite himself, Kisgart still felt rather nervous when he reached his room, fumbling with the key card as he swiped the door open. This seemed to make Holmes even more confident by contrast, and he flashed Kisgart an amused smirk, striding towards the bathroom.

“I’ll just clean myself up a little, if you don’t mind?” He threw back over his shoulder. Sam nodded.

“I’ll get some ice – you could use some on your forehead.” He remarked. It was best to keep himself busy. After fetching it, he poured them both a generous measure of Scotch, taking a gulp at once before topping his own glass up.

When Holmes emerged from the bathroom, looking rather more orderly even though the top few buttons of his shirt were now casually undone, Kisgart was wrapping some ice in a cloth. He handed the bundle to Holmes as the detective sat down and the latter took it wordlessly, pressing it to his head and taking the glass proffered him with his other hand.

Kisgart sat opposite, chewing his lip rather awkwardly. For the first time it struck him that this was uncomfortably akin to prostitution. No, he wouldn’t lie to himself. It _was_ prostitution. It didn’t make a difference that Holmes wasn’t aware of it. For a moment, he was perilously close to backing out entirely, but then Holmes said.

“So, you’re an actor as well as a writer, Mr. Kisgart?” He smirked again as he said this, obviously reveling in his cleverness. There was something so _apt_ about his manner that Sam sank back in his chair with a measure of relief, his awkward guilt over-ruled. He didn’t need to ask how the detective had worked this out. It was simply a useful reminder that this _was_ Sherlock Holmes. No one could get closer to living out the character – not even Jeremy Brett mid-breakdown! He nodded.

“That’s true. It doesn’t explain why this Williamson fellow seems to be interested in me.” He pointed out. Holmes’ lips spread into a slow grin.

“Come now, Mr. Kisgart, you didn’t invite me up here to discuss the case, did you?” He tilted his head.

“Well, Sherlock-“ Sam had begun confidently, but suddenly found himself stumbling after just two words. “Er, may I call you Sherlock?”

“Of course you may, _Sam_.” There was something almost mocking about the way Holmes said his name. Kisgart shrugged it off.

“I’m sorry, this is all rather out of the ordinary for me.” He apologized, with a self-deprecating laugh. “But, then, I can’t imagine it’s the usual way you treat your clients either.” Holmes’ eyes sparkled.

“Are you sure you can presume any such thing?” He was leaning forward now, his knee just brushing Kisgart’s own. For a brief instant, Kisgart was reminded of the Dollhouse: he wished he could take back the word ‘client’, as guilt threatened to flare up inside him once again. He wet his lips nervously but didn’t answer. Holmes shrugged, downing his Scotch in one gulp and slamming the glass down on the table beside them, making Kisgart jump.

“Anyway, I think we’re off the clock now.” He inched forward a little, his leg brushing against Sam’s. “Don’t you?”

Sam nodded dumbly. _Sherlock Holmes!_ He told himself, in something approaching panic. _Christ, I’m going to have sex with Sherlock Holmes!_ He knocked back his own whiskey, mirroring Holmes’ actions with the glass.

“Shall we?” Holmes was getting to his feet and he reached out a hand as he did so. Sam let the detective pull him up, and the next moment he felt Sherlock’s lips pressed against his own. His skin tingled where they touched, in a kiss that did little to calm him. He gasped into the other man’s mouth, tasting a faint tang of iron from the cut on the detective’s lip, but not enough to be unpleasant. He could feel the strength in Holmes’ arms as they tightened around him, fingers pressing firmly over the back of his neck, holding onto him.

It appeared, as Kisgart was backed – entirely unprotestingly, of course! – towards the bed, that fantasy-Holmes was as confident in the bedroom as he was in solving a case. But, then again, why shouldn’t he have put those observational powers to use in learning how to pleasure someone else? That knowledge must often come in useful, after all.

The pair tumbled onto the bed together, Sherlock on top, pinning Kisgart down. Sam writhed beneath the detective, uncomfortably turned on. His entire body seemed to throb beneath every touch of the detective’s assured fingers, his tongue tingling each time it brushed against Holmes’ own. He could feel Holmes’ cock, pressed hard against him and all thoughts of the morality, the ethics of this moment were wiped from his mind. Sherlock wanted him. He could feel that, and he was no longer able to believe it was a fiction.

“Oh God…” He mumbled into the other man’s neck, his hands raking down Holmes’ sides, feeling the hard muscle of his chest through the fine fabric of his shirt. Sherlock chuckled, nimbly un-fastening the buttons on Sam’s own shirt, letting it fall open to expose the pale skin of his chest, dappled with burnt orange hair. He threw his head back, eyelids flickering, feeling the warmth as Holmes’ tongue ran along his collarbone, teeth just grazing against it.

He thought he would burst out of his trousers before Holmes unfastened his fly with a rasp. The pair rolled over, Sam tugging at the detective’s own clothing, hands sliding up inside his shirt and over his chest. Boxing certainly wasn’t Sherlock’s only method of exercise, Kisgart thought, half laughing. But then he was lost again, a low moan escaping his lips as Holmes deftly slid one hand inside his trousers, fondling his erection through his pants.

Yes, he certainly knew how to please...

*

“Are you getting this?” There was a crackle through the comm-link, followed by the sound of Topher sniggering. Rosa, sitting in the back of her van outside the hotel, rolled her eyes, snorting at the flickering lights that showed Charlie’s vital signs as they shot up the screen in front of her.

“Yeah, I’m getting it. But I see it every time, Topher! I thought it was supposed to be a different sort of engagement this time round. But no one _really_ wants Charlie for his brains, right?” She was bored: sick of waiting in the van and not really caring how this whole affair was going to wind up. All she knew was that the readings on the monitor made it pretty clear that this was yet another romantic engagement.

“I guess they all wind up the same in the end, no matter what story they start out with.” Topher still seemed to find the whole thing amusing. “Conan Doyle must be turning in his grave!”

“I thought Sherlock Holmes was supposed to be asexual or something.” Rosa said testily.

“Hey, I don’t think the books are that specific!” Topher almost sounded injured, as if she’d called into question his ability to create the character. “He sneers at the ‘softer passions’, right? But he’s not exactly falling in love here, Rosa.”

“Wow, you make it sound so thrilling.” Rosa said, voice deadpan. “You’re telling me a client is actually _paying_ us for Charlie to have clinical, emotion-less sex with him? Couldn’t he find _any_ sex worker to do that?”

“Rosa, you’re so jaded.” Topher chastened her, not a little mockingly. “Avoiding emotion doesn’t mean he’s without physical sensation – or the ability to produce it. I don’t think our client’s going to be disappointed.”

“Of course, they never are.” She sighed, her words a little snarky because Topher was so excessively proud of the whole thing. What did he think he was – some kind of science-god of fantasy-land? She clicked off the connection, reaching for her thermos to pour another coffee. The java was going cold, and Rosa grimaced. It was going to be a long night.

*

Sam Kisgart was glad to discover that he appeared to have summed Sherlock Holmes in the bedroom up rather well. He had forgotten, for a moment, the fact that he’d effectively created his lover, caught up as he was in the enjoyment of his assured touch. The pair were naked by now, bodies entwined on the smooth white sheets of the hotel bed. Sam ran a hand in one long sweep down Sherlock’s naked chest, the muscle firm and warm beneath his fingers. His hand slid lower, across the slight hollow of his partner’s stomach, not hesitating as he reached his groin. He brushed teasingly along the length of Holmes’ long, slim erection and Holmes flashed him a smile, raising a hand to pull Kisgart’s face down towards his own for a kiss. As their lips met, Holmes pushed forward, rolling them both onto their sides, legs tangled together.

Kisgart groaned a little as his cock rubbed against Sherlock’s thigh, arousing him still further. His tongue brushed against the detective’s own, one of Holmes’ hands in his hair, holding his head close. Sherlock’s other hand gripped Sam’s buttocks, so that their bodies were ground together, hips pistoning so that their cocks rubbed tantalizingly against warm flesh.

Holmes reached behind him for the tube of lubricant that his eagle eyes had no doubt spotted earlier, finding its exact location without even looking and curling his fingers around it. He squeezed a generous amount onto his palm, insinuating his hand between their bodies. The lube was cold but quickly warmed in Sherlock’s hand as he wrapped his fingers around both their erections, sliding his hand back and forth in gentle, teasing movements.

“Mmm, that’s good…” Sam murmured, nestling his face in the hollow of Holmes’ shoulder. He kissed his neck and then his collar bone with a faint sigh as the detective’s hand continued to slide back and forth against his cock. Still lying on his side, he raised his upper leg slightly, letting the tip of Holmes’ fingers slip between them. He wasn’t going to miss his one and only opportunity to be buggered by Sherlock Holmes, after all!

Sam felt greased fingers run up and down between his buttocks, nudging against the puckered entrance before the tip of Holmes’ index finger slipped inside. He ran his tongue up the side of his partner’s neck, tasting a hint of salt, lips tugging gently at Holmes’ ear lobe.

“There’s condoms in the drawer.” He murmured. Holmes chuckled a little.

“I know.” He said. He lifted his head so that he was looking Kisgart in the eye, raising one eyebrow, an expression that looked so silly that Sam had to laugh. Then he raised his free hand, opening the fingers to reveal a small, square packet already clasped in it. Sam laughed again.

“Okay, I get it. I can’t get one over on you!” He admitted. Holmes grinned, lifting the packet between two fingers so he could tear the corner open with his teeth. He leaned back a little as he deftly slipped the condom out of the packet, easing it over his cock with long, careful fingers. Sam rolled over, facing away from his partner on his side. He felt Sherlock’s lubed fingers return to his buttocks, spreading them gently, stroking his arsehole.

“You ready?” Holmes’ lips brushed his ear, and Kisgart nodded.

“Mmm, yeah.” He muttered. He could feel Sherlock’s cock pressed hard against him, then pushed forward, easing into his greased anus. Sam gasped, his own erection bouncing before him. Sherlock’s hands slid around him, meeting across his chest, holding Kisgart tight as he began to thrust slowly inside him. Sam tilted his body a little, deepening the angle, and Holmes paused, penis deep inside his lover. The detective’s lips met the back of his neck, kissing the skin and Kisgart sighed, arching back into the kiss.

“Oh Christ, fuck me!” He blurted out, not wanting his lover to stop moving. Holmes chuckled, a throaty vibration against Kisgart’s shoulder and his hands tightened on Sam’s chest as he began to move again, building a rhythm up as he withdrew steadily only to slam home once more. Sam let his own fingers play across his balls, teasing himself before closing them slowly around the head of his own erection, still sticky with lube from Holmes’ earlier caress. He curled his hand into a fist, letting Holmes’ thrusts jolt his own cock forward, tilting his hand a little to stroke himself more firmly.

“Oh God!” He gulped, teetering on the edge of orgasm for long, beautiful moments. And then Holmes’ body jerked him forward once more and his eyes shot open wide, breath bitten off in a hiss as he came, ejaculating over his fist.


	2. The Reality

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> It turns out that creating fictional characters with enough intelligence to spot the flaws in a hastily constructed plot is not such a good idea... especially if one of them is a vicious psychopath!

Holmes’ head ached when he opened his eyes. He blinked twice. The sheets beneath him smelt of sex – of stale sweat and semen – and he remembered full well what had happened with Kisgart the previous night but not, for a brief fuzzy moment, why his head hurt. The whiskey…? He raised a hand to his temple and winced a little as his fingers met day-old bruises. Ah, of course – the fight! He reached an arm out beside him and then went on reaching, feeling only cold, empty sheets. He frowned, turning his aching head. The momentary possibility that Sam Kisgart might simply be in the shower (unlikely, even if he couldn't hear the water he'd hear the extractor fan) was discarded as soon as he saw the note on the pillow.

Sitting up hastily, Holmes snatched up the sheet of hotel paper and took in the words.

_Gone for a jog. Back soon. S.x_

A _jog_?! Well, that was rather a foolhardy way of avoiding morning-after awkwardness!

“The plot thickens…” Holmes murmured wryly, throwing his legs over the side of the bed and reaching for his clothes. He dressed hastily, only allowing himself a brief glance at his hair in the bathroom mirror before he hurried down to the main entrance and into a waiting taxi. He called Kisgart’s cell phone in the car but was hardly surprised when there was no answer. Although it seemed unlikely that Sam would risk encountering the solitary jogger alone after Holmes’ tale, he had also acted rather out of character the previous evening. People often did foolish things when they were afraid: like put themselves in danger, or have sex with the nearest available detective. Anyway, Holmes had other reasons for thinking it would be a useful precaution to check the reservoir first, despite the existence of many other safer locations where the writer might have decided to take a run.

“You want me to wait for you?” The driver asked, as Holmes leapt from the taxi and turned to press some money into his hand. Holmes shook his head. He would manage on foot from here.

The detective strode forward, his head swivelling from side to side as he walked, keen eyes taking in every misplaced piece of foliage, every bent blade of grass. For a while, all seemed well. And then he reached a patch of ground so disturbed even an amateur couldn't have missed it. His brow creasing, Holmes bent low, examining the ground closely.

A thought struck him and he reached for his phone again. A few seconds after he jabbed the call button, tinny music rose from the bushes to the side of the path. Rufus Wainwright, if he wasn’t mistaken. Holmes gently pulled the foliage aside, the bright light of the telephone screen shining out through the leaves around it, and then he reached in and picked it up.

A rather easy clue for someone to leave, he thought. One might almost surmise they _wanted_ him to know they had abducted Kisgart. In that case, the Williamson household would be expecting him.

Cancelling the call, Holmes pushed both telephones into his pocket, lighting a thoughtful cigarette as he made his way back to the road.

It took half an hour to walk to the Williamson residence. Half an hour and eight cigarettes, chain-smoked in a manner that earned him a decided glare from the sole other person he encountered, a very serious looking lycra-clad female, who flicked her blonde pony-tail disapprovingly at him as she jogged past.

By the time he reached the house and stubbed out the eighth cigarette, Holmes thought he might well have the entire thing figured out. Most of it, at least. He still wasn’t _precisely_ sure about the identity of the jogger…

The gates were open and he marched boldly up the long driveway, through an elegantly sculpted garden to the gleaming white building at the end, its long, low frontage framed by a variety of attractive blooms. When he reached the door, he didn’t hesitate to ring the bell.

It was a few minutes before it was opened by a maid.

“Sherlock Holmes to see Mr. Williamson.” He announced smartly. “I believe he is expecting me.”

The maid looked rather surprised but drew back slightly, uncertain whether or not to allow him in.

“I don’t know…” she started, but her employer hove into sight just then, at the end of a long, gleaming corridor. Huge windows along one side admitted so much sunlight that Holmes had to squint along it in order to identify the heavy-set middle-aged man approaching him.

“Ah, Mr. Holmes.” Williamson did not look particularly pleased to see his visitor. “I trust you’re here to settle my security guard’s medical bills.” His tone was sarcastic but he was clearly angry. Holmes chuckled a little, striding past the hesitant maid, who shrugged and closed the door behind him, slipping away without another glance from either man. Williamson himself stopped a few feet away from the detective, his features gathered into a glare.

“Don’t tell me that’s why you abducted my client, Mr. Williamson.” Holmes said levelly. Williamson opened his mouth to answer but at that moment he was interrupted by a door opening, halfway along the corridor behind him.

“I think I’d better deal with this from now on, don’t you Williamson?” A voice said, and a tall, well-built figure stepped into the passageway, little more than a silhouette in the bright light. The voice, however, was not one that Holmes was ever likely to forget. It was cultured and measured, verging on upper class but in a way that suggested an Oxbridge education rather than the drawl of old money. And yet there was a harsh edge to it too, almost a hint of danger: a cool confidence that one could easily imagine degenerating into cruelty.

“Moriarty.” Holmes said shortly, managing to betray none of his momentary surprise as this final piece of the puzzle slid into place. Williamson forgotten, he stepped towards the figure, every muscle of his body tense in readiness for a possible attack. “I take it you didn’t come to LA solely for the jogging opportunities?”

Moriarty laughed – a low chuckle – and then stepped away from the door, gesturing with his hand. “Won’t you come this way, my dear Holmes? I think a little catching up is in order. And we wouldn’t to keep your client out of the loop.”

Holmes nodded curtly, the hair on the back of his neck rising a little as he passed within a foot of his old adversary to step through the doorway. Moriarty dismissed Williamson – who had begun to follow – with a wave of his hand, closing the door firmly behind them.

Holmes found himself blinking as his eyes struggled to adjust to the dim light inside the room after the dazzling sunshine of the corridor. He closed them, counting slowly to ten, and when he looked again he could see the dim outlines of what appeared to be a study, lit solely by a well-shaded lamp in one corner. The room was small and windowless, the far wall covered by a huge bookcase, which was crammed with shelf after shelf of leather-bound volumes, while an oak desk scattered with papers stood at the far end by the lamp. To Holmes’ left was a heavy wooden chair, which presumably belonged to the desk but had been pushed right back against the opposite wall. Sam Kisgart was tied to it, seemingly wearing nothing but his underwear. Cord was wrapped around his waist and the chair back, and binding his arms to the rests on either side. He looked relieved – but not surprised – to see Holmes.

“Thank Christ!” He said animatedly. “I knew you’d find me!”

“Did you now?” Holmes gave him a searching look and he could see, even in the low light that Kisgart flushed slightly before he looked away.

“What a touching reunion.” Moriarty chuckled. “When will you learn to choose your partners more carefully, Sherlock?” Holmes turned away from Kisgart to face his old enemy. There was a long moment of tense silence as they squared up to each other, both staring searchingly into the other’s face for a hint of explanation.

“Whatever did you hope to gain by this, Moriarty?” Holmes’ voice was as tightly clipped as his body was tense. Moriarty grinned.

“Perhaps I only wanted to see you again, darling.” He suggested. Holmes scowled. He didn’t want to admit that encountering the professor’s smirking, but not unattractive, face was not an entirely unpleasant experience. He was also well aware that Moriarty was intending to manipulate his own tendency towards impatience and yet he couldn’t help himself _becoming_ impatient. It really was most frustrating!

“So, you’ve seen me.” He snapped. “In which case I shall take my client and leave.” Moriarty stepped forward, a foot closer to the detective, standing squarely between Holmes and Kisgart.

“I’m afraid you’ll have to get through me first.” His words were soft, almost purring. He tilted his head, edging even closer to Holmes. “Unless,” he murmured, “There’s something else you’re after…?” He licked his lips slowly, a simple gesture that somehow conspired to be disturbingly obscene. Holmes knew full well that this was intended to both anger and arouse him, but he put a fist into Moriarty’s face all the same.

The professor staggered backwards, laughing despite the blood spraying in misty droplets as the skin split over his eyebrow. He righted himself impressively quickly, and he was still grinning as he threw himself at Holmes, hurling the detective backwards to crash across the desk, the solid wood jarring painfully against his elbows as he tried to break his fall. Papers flew everywhere and a pile of books tumbled to the floor as Holmes scrabbled wildly with both arms to regain his balance. He dodged Moriarty’s fist, which landed jarringly against his shoulder instead of his face, and careered forward, grabbing Moriarty by the shoulders and slamming him against the bookcase, which gave an ominous creak. He managed to land another punch as Moriarty kicked out, firmly bruising the detective’s shin before attempting to drive a rather ungentlemanly knee into his groin. Holmes slammed the professor’s head against a shelf to distract him from the latter and Moriarty grunted in pain, both hands raised against Holmes, trying to push him away.

He managed it, to some extent, and even got in a punch that drove Holmes’ teeth against lips already battered from the previous day’s fight. Holmes coughed, spitting blood as, panting rather, he put his full strength into hurling Moriarty against the shelves once again.

There was another creak and the bookshelf began to teeter. The pair staggered out of the way, still grappling furiously with each other. Moriarty tried to dive sideways, and Holmes threw himself after him, landing heavily on top of the professor as the shelves came crashing down behind them in a cloud of dust and scattered books.

Holmes blinked, managing to raise himself on his knees above his enemy, wiping the back of his hand across his face.

“Watch out!” He heard Kisgart call urgently and, as his eyes cleared, he realized that Moriarty was clutching a knife. Holmes raised one arm across his chest to ward off the anticipated blow but, oddly, the professor threw the knife instead. He was lying at an awkward angle, barely raised off the ground, so it was hardly surprising that his aim was off. The knife whistled past Holmes’ ear, up towards the corner of the room, where it hit something with an almighty crash. Holmes was rather impressed by the force the professor managed to get into the throw, despite his position, although he didn’t intend to make this known.

“You used to have better aim.” He said shortly, still panting rather from the exertion of the fight. Moriarty grinned, his own words breathless in reply.

“I still do.” His eyes sparkled but he didn’t explain himself. They stared at each other for a long moment, the professor pinned to the ground between the detective’s legs. In those few seconds Holmes found himself taking in, in detail, every inch of his adversary’s face, and not entirely in a manner befitting his usual interest in dispassionate observation. His gaze passed over the cruel mouth, forever twisted with the beginnings of a mocking smile, and eyes that sparkled with a fierce and dangerous intelligence, framed by dark brows. The skin was split open across Moriarty’s left eyebrow and blood ran in a dirty streak around his eye socket. Holmes found himself raising a hand, licking his index finger before slowly wiping the smear of blood away.

Moriarty grinned, with a little less guile and a little more humour than his natural expression generally permitted. He raised himself up on one elbow and he didn’t say anything, but he parted his lips, ever so slightly, and that seemed to be all the invitation Holmes needed. Almost without being aware of his own movements, Holmes was leaning forward again, half lying on the professor as he crushed his lips against his enemy’s, grabbing the back of Moriarty’s head to pull it close.

The kiss was as fierce, as desperate, as the fight had been. It tasted of blood and sweat and it was painful and exhilarating all at once. Moriarty’s teeth snagged against Holmes’ cut lip but the detective barely seemed to notice, clinging on to the professor as their tongues flicked against each other. Holmes felt strong arms sliding around his shoulders, a hand gripping at the back of his neck, fingers pressing hard enough to bruise the tender skin and this only spurred him on to kiss Moriarty harder.

Eventually, Holmes raised his head, gasping for breath. He stared down at Moriarty for a moment, and the professor gazed back. He looked unusually serious: his dark eyes intent, his lips wet. A thin line of blood was starting to trickle down around his eye again – underneath it the skin was darkening into a purple bruise. Moriarty seemed to realise what Holmes was looking at and a hint of amusement entered his expression. He hummed a brief refrain, almost under his breath, so that it took Holmes a moment to hear what he was singing: it was the chorus of _He Hit Me (and it felt like a kiss)_.

Holmes made an exasperated noise and knelt up again, then staggered to his feet. Still smirking a little, Moriarty sat up. He held out a hand and, rather grudgingly, Holmes pulled him up beside him.

“It seems I may have got through you after all.” Holmes commented, nodding his head towards Kisgart, who was silently staring at them from the corner, not looking quite as perturbed as might have been expected. Moriarty glanced over at the bound writer and snorted.

“You do know his name’s not really Sam Kisgart, don’t you?” He said. Holmes pulled himself up straight.

“Of course I do!” He sounded injured that the professor would doubt him. “The stupid man used his credit card the first time I met him.” Moriarty nodded.

“My guess is he’s been playing both of us.” He explained. “He and Christ knows how many others! Williamson’s in on it, of that I’m sure. And the house is rigged with cameras. I chose this room because I knew there were only two in here. And I took those out during the fight.” He walked over to the far corner, bending down and retrieving his knife from where it had fallen, surrounded by tiny shards of glass from the camera lens. He flashed Holmes a grin as he slid it back inside his jacket. “I told you I still had good aim.”

Holmes raised his eyebrows, not trying to hide the fact that he was impressed, though his voice remained even.

“So, we’ve uncovered quite the plot.” He remarked. “Did you know about the black van outside the front gate?” Moriarty shook his head.

“That certainly complicates matters. Interesting that we appear to have mutual enemies, is it not?” He frowned, thinking for a moment. “We can still get out the back. But we’d better leave quickly – I may have made the destruction of the cameras look like an accident but that still won’t give us much grace.”

Holmes nodded. “Lead the way – you know this place better than I do.” His eyes landed on Kisgart again. The man’s eyes were wide – for the first time he appeared to be surprised by the turn of events. It was almost enough to make Holmes laugh. “We’d better take him with us.” He commented. “He’ll be good insurance.” Moriarty nodded.

“I think I can get more out of him.” He flashed Holmes a grin. “I have a way with people, remember?”

Holmes rolled his eyes, but he didn’t retaliate.

*

The pair met no one on the way down to the garage, which was lucky, as even this quick-thinking duo might have been hard pressed to explain why, between them, they were carrying a nearly naked man still bound to a chair. Moriarty had gagged their prisoner so that he was unable to attract attention or ask either of his captors any questions. His eyes flickered anxiously from one to the other, his fear obviously increasing with each passing moment. However there was still something odd in the man’s expression, Holmes noted, as if he couldn’t quite believe he wasn’t actually safe…

His eyes nonetheless pleaded with Holmes as Moriarty unlocked the back doors of a dark van with tinted windows in the huge, underground garage.

“It’s the same make as the van outside.” Holmes remarked. Moriarty flashed him a look.

“It is? I told you Williamson was in on it.” He glanced in at the equipment ranging one wall inside. “Perhaps we can use this to our advantage, stop them tracking us.” Holmes nodded.

“Get us somewhere safe and I’ll see what I can do.”

Between them, they shoved Kisgart into the back of the van, so that he was lying on his side on the dusty floor, still bound to the chair.

“He may be in for a bumpy ride.” Moriarty smirked, as the pair got into the front of the van. Holmes shrugged, not much caring.

“Do you have a destination in mind?” He asked. Moriarty pulled a face, bright sunlight flooding into the room as he opened the long, low garage door with the remote on the dashboard.

“There’s one place I can think of at this short notice. An old abattoir, right out on the edge of town near the industrial quarter. Everything’s abandoned there, as far as I could tell. Though I haven’t had much of an opportunity to scout for hiding places with Williamson lurking like a very persistent bad smell.”

“Well, on the way you can tell me just how much of this plot you’ve managed to uncover. Between us it shouldn’t take long to get to the bottom of it.” Holmes’ tone was confident.

“We make quite the team, don’t we sweetheart?” Moriarty flashed Holmes a grin, showing his teeth. He turned his attention back to the road, turning out of the drive rather sharply. There was a dull thud from the back of the van and Moriarty chuckled. “And I think Mr. Kisgart is likely to be more forthcoming following his less than comfortable journey.” He added.

Holmes nodded, glancing in the rear view mirror to check whether the other black van was behind them. Luckily, they seemed to have made a clean getaway. Indeed, there was still no sign of the van when Moriarty pulled up behind an imposingly filthy building that looked to have been long abandoned. Nor was there any sign of life in the near vicinity. Holmes made a careful check a few hundred yards in either direction all the same.

“When you’ve quite finished dawdling, a bit of help would be nice.” Moriarty’s voice was faintly amused. He had managed to prise open one of the side doors of the building and was now struggling to single-handedly wrestle the chair out of the van. Kisgart had obviously been flung around the floor during the journey. His face was smeared with dirt, and his side was filthy with dust. His hair stood up in grey-ish hanks, and there was an unpleasant bruise spreading down his forehead where it had met the side of the van in a sudden and clearly painful manner.

Holmes took all this in rather dispassionately as he helped to heave the chair out of the van and inside. They ignored the first room they came to, heading through several doors before they passed through massive, sliding metal gates into an open hall-like space. Cracked, dirty tiles covered the floor and met with the derelict brickwork halfway up the walls and, although there were windows, they were so high up the floor was wreathed in shadow. The place was so antiquated it had clearly not been in use for decades, though rusted hooks still hung from the ceiling.

The pair deposited the chair in the centre of the huge space and paused for breath.

“I’ll see what I can do to stop us being tracked.” Holmes remarked, and received only a curt nod from Moriarty in response. Kisgart’s eyes pleaded with Holmes not to go, but Holmes considered he’d be more likely to talk if he had a taste of what the professor was capable of. It was the man’s own stupid fault for trying to play them as he had, after all!

When Holmes had done what he could to scramble any signal that might be tracked to their van and returned, a good twenty minutes later, he was not surprised to hear Kisgart’s sobbing before he even entered the main abattoir. As Holmes stepped into the dim room, he paused for a moment, taking in the scene before him. Moriarty had removed his jacket and rolled up his shirt-sleeves to reveal his muscular arms. Not unexpectedly, he was holding the knife he had used earlier in his right hand, and it rather looked as if his threats had already resulted in some action, because a thin line of blood ran down Kisgart’s cheek, and the man’s body looked more bruised than it had done when they’d hauled him out of the van. The cut wasn’t deep, though: Moriarty was still warming up.

Without even considering his actions for once, Holmes found himself stepping up behind the pair, and laying a hand on Moriarty’s shoulder. It wasn’t exactly to warn his new associate off, although he saw a momentary spark of relief in Kisgart’s eyes. It felt right, somehow, to have this physical contact: to feel the warm, solid flesh under the thin cotton shirt. Moriarty obviously felt the same, because he flashed Holmes a smile over his shoulder before his gaze hardened again as it returned to Kisgart.

“Who are you working for?” Moriarty demanded roughly not, it seemed, for the first time. “Who was in that van?”

“I’m not…” Kisgart sobbed. “I didn’t do anything!” Moriarty clearly wasn’t very happy with this answer, which earned Kisgart a stinging blow round the face. His head snapped back and he cried out.

“So you keep saying. But you can stop lying to us now, Mr. 'Kisgart _'_.” Moriarty spat the words. “I can tell when you’re lying. I can see it in your eyes.” He leant in closer, his voice a low hiss. “Maybe I should cut them out...”

“It really would be far better for you if you just admitted everything.” Holmes chipped in, playing good cop.

“Oh God…” Kisgart screwed his eyes shut for a moment, as if that might protect him. “It… T-the Dollhouse!” Kisgart mumbled, his voice faltering. “The van’s from the D-dollhouse.” Moriarty turned his head again, throwing Holmes a questioning look. The name clearly didn’t mean much to him.

“He keeps using that word, but I think it’s gibberish. Maybe just one eye?” He suggested, rather casually, but nonetheless as if he were asking permission. “What do you think, darling?”

“I’ve seen the name before.” Holmes ignored the request. He paused, going back through his memories to filter out the relevant moments and then he nodded, drawing Kisgart’s phone out of his pocket. He scrolled through the recent contacts and there it was, just below his own number: Dollhouse – Adelle DeWitt. He showed it to Moriarty, whose brow furrowed still further. The name clearly didn’t mean anything to him.

“Adelle DeWitt?” He said questioningly, and they both looked at Kisgart for a reaction. “Is that your employer?” Kisgart shook his head helplessly.

“She told me… she said you’d probably just go back! If I mentioned the Dollhouse, you’d just…” He swallowed hard. “You’re not real!” He insisted. Moriarty snorted.

“You’re one to talk, _Kisgart.”_ He said scathingly. Kisgart’s eyes were grey-blue islands swimming in a sea of white: wide with terror. He’d clearly realized the precariousness of his position at last, but he nonetheless made a real effort to explain himself.

“You’re not! Either one of you.” He insisted. “Why do you think you’ve joined together like this, when by rights you ought to be enemies? Even when you’re supposed to be questioning me, I can see you’re distracted by each other. You think you have some dark past, a forbidden attraction you can’t ignore… It’s not dark. It’s not even real! I paid for this.” He swallowed hard, hanging his bruised head. “It’s supposed to be my fantasy…”

Holmes and Moriarty stared at him for a moment, neither quite sure how to take this outburst. It brought to the fore something Holmes had wondered about previously but hadn’t quite let himself consider because it didn’t follow any of the logic he was familiar with. The pieces of the puzzle: none of them had ever quite slotted together, as if someone had been sanding off the edges of reality to try and shoehorn things into a story that didn’t quite make sense. He’d been trying to solve it despite this knowledge hovering in the background. He frowned, reaching into his pocket for a cigarette to help him think.

The professor’s dark brown eyes met his, head tilted slightly in a question. Holmes paused, cigarette in his mouth, thumb frozen on the lighter. Then he nodded slowly.

Moriarty punched their captive full in the face and the man's head snapped backwards and remained that way, unconscious.

“Time to talk.” He said.

*

Adelle DeWitt, Director of the LA Dollhouse, was deep in conversation with a prospective client when she heard the emergency phone line give its sharp, staccato ring, shortly followed by a rapid knock on the door that she recognized as Topher’s at his most neurotic. She turned a careful smile on her visitor.

“Mr. Fuller, I’m terribly sorry to interrupt our conversation but I have to attend to something briefly. Do help yourself to more tea.” She rose elegantly to her feet and strode for the door.

The expression on her face shut Topher up until she had closed the door carefully behind her.

“What is it?” Her voice was sharp, ready to spring into action at a moment’s notice.

“Rosa just called in. It- it looks like Charlie and Alpha have gone off mission. Maybe a while ago – she'd gone back to Samuelson's van after her jog and they didn't notice immediately that the cameras were down.” This was serious. DeWitt strode towards the security office, with Topher dancing at her heels like an anxious, hyperactive puppy.

“Mr. Dominic?” She called to her head of security as she and Topher entered the room. “Get Rosa and Samuelson online. I need to know that they’ve tracked down our missing dolls.”

“With all respect, Ma’am, I think they might be finding it a bit harder…” But Laurence Dominic was busy patching up the connection as he spoke, and he was interrupted by Rosa’s panicked voice.

“We need a trace! The equipment in the van’s down. We think they've taken the other van, so that's making it harder to follow them. I’ve lost him, I-”

“Rosa?” DeWitt’s crisp tones swept in. “Is this an equipment malfunction or… something else?”

“It looks like Alpha knew he was being followed!” This was Samuelson, sounding as horrified and mystified as Rosa.

“Or Charlie.” Rosa added. “They’ve disappeared together.”

“I made it very clear these imprints would be prone to paranoia. They're highly intelligent, they'll have noticed anything that doesn't add up.” Topher cut in, trying to prove he hadn’t actually done anything wrong. “I flagged it in the paperwork!”

“They have the client with them.” Samuelson didn’t respond to Topher’s words, because his news was even more serious, his words tightly contained. He was usually laid-back to the point of carelessness. For him to sound this distressed, there had to be potentially catastrophic consequences. DeWitt’s eyebrows bunched together and she turned to Topher, her words icy calm.

“Just as a point of interest, how potentially lethal would you say the Moriarty imprint is?” She paused a moment. “And how likely is it that the Holmes imprint will stop him causing significant harm?”

Topher chewed his lip. He didn’t answer the question, which she knew meant the worst possible scenario.

“I think we need to call out the troops.” He said.

*

“Three days ago.” Holmes said, “You ran after the man we both knew as Kisgart around the Hollywood Reservoir.” He turned to look piercingly at Moriarty. “Or _did_ you?”

The pair were sitting on the edge of a raised platform in the dusty abattoir. Neither of them could trust their memories, it seemed. They’d already discovered more than one minor discrepancy between the story Kisgart had told Holmes and the things Moriarty remembered. The timings didn’t quite match up, a few details of the story… was it faulty memory or something else? The Professor was silent for a moment, his brow furrowed deeply.

“I remember doing it.” He said slowly. Both men were aware this wasn’t exactly the same thing. “For the past two weeks I remember following him regularly. I thought he would lead me to you.”

“Before I’d even met him?” Holmes interrupted sharply. Moriarty nodded, still frowning.

“That sounds unlikely, doesn’t it?” He mused.

“For the past two days,” Holmes said, “My memories are sharp and clear, everything in my mind is in its rightful place. _Before_ that…” It was hard to articulate, he simply _knew_ that something was wrong inside his head, the one place he could usually count on. “I can’t trust them in the same way. I admit it’s been skillfully done. I doubt any ordinary person would realise there was something amiss! It even took time for _me_ to notice it.” He paused for a second. “My memories have been fabricated.” Moriarty didn’t protest, even though this conclusion might have seemed preposterous. He was only too aware that Holmes was correct.

“You think we’ve been brainwashed?” He suggested. “By this Dollhouse, perhaps?” Holmes nodded.

“This makes it an even more complex problem.” He admitted. “Not only can we not trust the tales our good friend Kisgart spins us, we can’t even trust our own minds.” He frowned, looking almost vulnerable for a second. “This isn’t usually a position I find myself in.” Moriarty laughed, but his face remained serious.

“I imagine not.” He tilted his head, the faint hint of a smile playing across his lips. “And, if _anything_ Kisgart said is true, we can’t trust our feelings either.”

“Feelings?” Holmes spat the word, as if he found the very sound unpleasant. Moriarty laughed.

“You know what I mean.” He leant in slightly closer to Holmes, raising a hand. His thumb traced along the outline of Holmes’ jaw, and Holmes felt his pulse quicken. “You feel it too.” Moriarty purred. Holmes licked rather dry lips and murmured.

“A purely physiological reaction…” He trailed off, lost in the intensity of Moriarty’s stare.

“No less difficult to manage.” Moriarty pointed out. “Shall I show you?” He bent forward, brushing his lips against Holmes’. Holmes gasped, his heart hammering in his chest, his skin flushing, lips tingling at Moriarty’s touch. He didn’t even think about giving in, he just did: kissing his old adversary long and hard. Moriarty responded just as eagerly, his tongue sliding into Holmes’ mouth, deepening the kiss. Holmes could smell a faint hint of aftershave, overlaid by the bitter scent of stale, iron-tinged sweat from their earlier fight. There was the slight scratch of half-day old stubble against his cheek, the tingle of his own bruised lips against Moriarty’s. He forgot everything, losing himself utterly in the kiss for long, long seconds before his former enemy eventually pulled away.

Moriarty’s brown eyes were sparkling with humour. Holmes felt his own mouth twist into a smile.

“I see your point.” He conceded.

“Maybe the best thing would be to get it out of our systems.” Moriarty suggested, giving Holmes a long, appraising look up and down. Holmes snorted.

“I don’t remember that ever helping when we were young.” He remarked. Moriarty grinned.

“Ah, but you can’t trust your memory, can you?” He teased. Then he glanced carefully over at the chair, still in the middle of the room. “Anyway, it’s either this or torture Kisgart. You’re the one with the morals, sweetheart. It’s your choice!” Holmes rolled his eyes.

“I really do think you need to take this more seriously, James.” He reprimanded. Moriarty grinned again.

“Mmm, it’s been a long while since you called me that…” He murmured. “Getting fonder, perhaps?”

“It seems I can’t help that, can I?” Holmes commented drily. Then he tried to drag the conversation back to more pressing matters. “However, I think the equipment in the van might give us our best chance of-“ He broke off, realizing that Moriarty was unbuttoning his shirt. “What the hell are you doing?”

“I don’t want to get blood on my shirt.” His companion jerked his head meaningfully towards their prisoner, before folding his shirt rather roughly and placing it beside him. Holmes froze for a moment, his eyes travelling over Moriarty’s naked chest.

“For Christ’s sake!” He tutted, though he didn’t seem able to tear his eyes away.

“I gave you a choice.” Moriarty smirked. He tilted his head, leaning closer to Holmes again as he reached out for the knife. “So, what’s it to be?” Holmes swallowed.

“This is ridiculous.” He said, rather curtly. But, to his surprise, he found himself leaning a little closer to his former enemy. He raised a hand, fingertips brushing around the firm flesh of Moriarty’s pectoral muscles. Moriarty, looking rather smug, let go of his knife, reaching out confidently to start unfastening Holmes’ shirt. He bent his head forward, his lips brushing Holmes’ cheek.

“You know what,” Moriarty purred, sliding Holmes’ shirt from his shoulders. “We could kill two birds with one stone.” He glanced over at Kisgart.

“I’m afraid I don’t really find torture the turn-on that you seem to, James.” Holmes said drily. Moriarty grinned slowly.

“What I mean, Sherlock my dear – as you very well know – is that we can only imagine how distressing poor Mr. Kisgart would find it to come to his senses to find you bent over him, being well and truly buggered by yours truly.” There was a hint of challenge in his eyes.

“Why you buggering me?” Holmes retorted, though he was clearly amused by the idea.

“Because he _had_  still been hoping that you’d save him from me.” Moriarty pointed out. “Didn’t you notice?”

“I can’t fault your logic.” Holmes agreed, eyes still sparkling. “Although I do remember Kisgart remarking that this was supposed to be his fantasy…” Moriarty’s grin widened, showing his teeth.

“There’s quite a difference between fantasy and reality.” He tilted his head slightly. “I’ve taught many a man that the hard way.” Holmes raised an eyebrow.

“The difference between masochism and ideal masochism, you mean? All very _Psychopathia Sexualis,_ my dear Moriarty.” Moriarty laughed, getting to his feet.

“It’s not 1895, you know.” He pointed out, still grinning.

*

Sam Kisgart groaned, his head swimming. He wasn’t sure how long he’d been unconscious: certainly not long enough for his bruises to hurt any the less. He was so dazed that he couldn’t remember, for a moment, what was real and what wasn’t. Why did he think his name was Kisgart?

There were noises in the background that he couldn’t place, and the weight of warm flesh over his naked thighs. He heard a gasp that seemed rather familiar, a groan that was somewhat less so. Kisgart forced his exhausted eyes open, finding even the dim light painful at first. He squinted, and then his eyes widened as he finally realized what was happening.

Sherlock Holmes was bent over Kisgart’s lap. Sam could see the tight muscles of the now familiar naked back, stretched over him, followed by the dark head of hair, now somewhat tousled, just off to his left. He frowned, throat dry. He knew what was going on before he turned his head to the right. He knew, but nonetheless somehow hoped that he would be wrong.

His eyes travelled along Holmes’ body, past his hips, towards the curve of his buttocks. He could see the other man, then. Could see the thick rod of his cock, slipping back and forth between Holmes’ buttocks. He swallowed bile, rather surprised at the effects his former fantasy now had on him. But the things that man had done to him... The things he knew he _might_ do to him! 

Trying to block the thoughts out, Sam took in the taut muscles in the man’s thighs as he pistoned back and forth, reluctantly raising his head to a stomach and chest that looked unnaturally hairless – did the Dollhouse wax their charges? Probably, he thought, knowing that this digression was only a very poor attempt to distract himself from the situation.

Nonetheless, his eyes moved inexorably upwards. He could see the arms holding onto Holmes – hands that had not so long ago inflicted pain upon him. He gulped. He didn’t want to lift his head any higher, didn’t want to see that cruel face contorted with pleasure. He blinked, but even that couldn’t protect him.

“You don’t seem to be enjoying your fantasy very much, _Gatiss_.” Moriarty hissed, staring down from half-lidded eyes. Kisgart shook his head, barely even registering the name. He wasn’t sure, now, if the Dollhouse had any hope of finding him. Maybe he would die here, with those cold, hard eyes fixed upon him. Yes, a soon as Moriarty had finished with Holmes, he would probably kill Sam. He closed his eyes, a tear creeping out from under the lids. He felt both bodies tense, heard Holmes cry out, but he couldn’t actually tell who was orgasming – maybe both of them. It didn’t really matter. He was going to die.

The metal doors of the abattoir slammed open, heavy feet marching through them. There was the sound of a gun being cocked, and Moriarty staggered away from Kisgart, naked, hands in the air.

“Round them up!” A man’s voice shouted sternly. “Where’s Samuelson?”

“Charlie?” A woman’s voice was calling, somewhere on the other side.

“Take me to the Dollhouse!” Moriarty demanded imperiously, and a curt, but rather exhausted, voice snapped out in response.

“Yes, of course. You need your treatment. Don’t make this difficult, Alpha.”

Movement flashed in front of Kisgart, blurring in his tears, and he could hardly tell what was happening. He saw Holmes pulled to his feet by a young woman with long, blonde hair.

“Wouldn’t you like a treatment, Charlie?” She was saying, one arm around his broad shoulders. Someone else was hurrying forward with a blanket.

“An excellent idea.” Holmes was agreeing with her. “I find my treatments so transcendently stimulating and clarifying to the mind.”

And then a stern man with a gun crouched in front of him, laying his weapon aside to start unpicking the bonds.

“Can you speak?” He asked. “We haven’t met, but I’m Laurence Dominic – I’m responsible for the Dollhouse's security. I must apologise profusely for this technological error: it seems that these imprints were too intelligent to remain within parameters. We tracked you down as quickly as we could.” He paused a moment, frowning at the lack of reaction. "Sir? Nod if you understand me."

Kisgart nodded dumbly, finally raising his head. He supposed he was safe. He turned to watch the men he had known as Holmes and Moriarty being led from the room, suddenly as docile as children. Maybe he had never been in any danger, not really. But it had felt so… _real_! Mr. Dominic frowned, wondering why the client didn’t respond further.

“Ms. DeWitt will speak to you after your medical.” He continued. “The Dollhouse will do anything to resolve this matter, believe me. I truly am very sorry about this malfunction, Mr. Gatiss.”

The man formerly known as Sam Kisgart merely hung his head.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> In the book Holmes refers to, 'Psychopathia Sexualis' by Richard von Krafft-Ebing, the author (who coined the term masochism) distinguished between masochism as a fantasy (ideal/symbolic) and the practice of submission and/or enjoyment of pain in sex. The book was actually first published in 1886 (English translation 1892). I probably reference it far too much in my fic. But hey, what's the point in reading late Victorian medical texts if you can't insert them into fanfiction?

**Author's Note:**

> If you’ve never seen Joss Whedon’s Dollhouse, all you need to know for the purposes of this story is as follows… The Dollhouse is a secret LA bunker, in which a number of volunteer ‘actives’ have their personalities and memories wiped. They are equipped with a new personality specifically for each ‘engagement’ (sometimes action-adventure, more usually ‘romantic’), usually paid for by an extremely wealthy client. If you have seen Dollhouse, there are a few other details you’ll notice I’ve popped in from the Alpha storyline.
> 
> Although most of this focuses on the ‘dolls’ themselves, there are some characters from the TV show mentioned. Topher Brink does the neuroscience bit (programming), with some help from Ivy, Adelle DeWitt runs the Dollhouse with security from Laurence Dominic and Dr Saunders is the resident physician. Each doll has a handler who accompanies them on engagements, usually keeping watch via monitors in the back of a black van – Samuelson is mentioned in passing on TV, but Rosa is my character.
> 
> I assumed some of the back story from my Holmes/Moriarty series (though obviously this is not set in the Victorian era) – i.e. Holmes/Moriarty used to be lovers before Moriarty’s crimes got in the way. Topher naturally had to give the pair something of a past in order for Kisgart’s fantasy to work!


End file.
